


gilded cage

by venndaai



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Book: Tempests and Slaughter, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 08:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20702933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venndaai/pseuds/venndaai
Summary: “Oh,” Arram said, “it’s Varice who’s upset, is it? It’s Varice who can’t stand the thought of me touching anyone who’s not her? She’s the one sending armed guards to drag me back, because Varice is jealous?”





	gilded cage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gostaks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gostaks/gifts).

Arram opened his eyes slowly. His head was pounding like every hippo on the Zekoi was tap-dancing on his skull. Nineteen was too old for hangovers like this, he decided. He wasn’t a reckless and carefree student any more, discarding sleep in favor of sex and alcohol. More was the pity. 

Opening his eyes revealed a beautifully decorated stone wall, covered with a mural depicting Zallaran flora and fauna,each flower or bird painted in rich jewel tones. The mural was bordered by turquoise and serpentine tiles. Soft early morning light dappled the wall. Arram shut his eyes again.

He was lying on something very soft and silky, but his entire body hurt like he’d been tied up and tossed in the back of a cart and trundled over fifteen leagues of bad side roads. Which, now that he cast back in his memory, was exactly what had happened. 

He must have shifted or made some kind of noise- probably a groan- because from somewhere above and to the side he heard Ozorne say, “I have to admit, this is becoming tiresome.” 

“I couldn’t agree more,” Arram said, though the words came out slurred. He tried to press his hands to his aching head, and discovered they were still bound tightly by thick rope braided with silver wire. He could feel the enchantments in the rope; it would be trivial to detangle or, more quickly, blast them apart, if it wasn’t for the complication of the drug still working its way through his system and this Goddess-blessed headache. His hands felt numb, and he didn’t bring them up in front of his eyes, afraid he might see damage from cut off circulation. Ozorne would make him a new pair of hands, he was sure, gold and gem-encrusted and ingeniously ensorcelled to strangle him at Ozorne’s command. 

“I have few enough guards whose loyalty I can truly trust,” Ozorne said, still apparently addressing the back of Arram’s head. “I can hardly afford to waste them chasing you down every time you decide I’m not giving you enough attention.”

Arram pushed his face further against the cool relief of the pillow, though he could feel goosebumps breaking out on his skin as a result of leaving himself so exposed. 

“Oh, stop being dramatic,” Ozorne said. “Sit up and drink some tea. It’s Varice’s old hangover remedy.”

Arram moved his head slightly, away from the pillow, and sniffed. There was indeed a familiar scent in the air, and his head swam for a moment with nostalgia and some bitter subterranean regret he didn’t want to examine too closely. For a moment he felt as though he was having one of those strange dreams where everything was inside-out and turned around. Ozorne ought to be the one in bed, refusing to speak, and he should be the one bringing tea. He should be thirteen again, innocent in all meanings of the word. 

He felt very silly, all of a sudden, and tired of games, so he rolled over and opened his eyes again. He was lying on Ozorne’s huge bed, in the opulent imperial apartments. They had been Emperor Mikrom’s only a year ago, but no trace of the previous owner remained to Arram’s eye. Ozorne liked to make everything his.

The current emperor was sitting at the foot of the bed, holding a tray with a pot of tea and a stone bowl. He was dressed simply, by imperial standards anyway. A simple long bronze tunic, only one ring on each finger, hair loose, unbraided. He wore paint, but only around his eyes and on his lips. He looked like a beautiful, rather vain man, not a painted statue of a god.

He held out the bowl, full of steaming tea. “You drink it first,” Arram said, though he knew full well that that would be no guarantee, with all the anti-poisoning spells the emperor wore on his person. 

The flash of anger passed over Ozorne’s face like a cloud on a windy day, disappearing as fast as it had come. Arram was going to have to do better. Ozorne made a gesture, and Arram felt the cord on his wrists fall away. It was like a blindfold dropping. The room glimmered with subtle spells. Ozorne glowed like the sun. “Check it yourself, if you’re so suspicious,” Ozorne said.

Arram flexed his hands. They seemed to work, and looked only a little purple. “I think I’m entitled to suspicion,” Arram said, “considering how you had someone drug me just last night,” but he took the tea and traced the spell over it with one finger, the movements almost automatic at this point. It was clean. It smelled like Varice. “You could have just left me. I wasn’t trying to get your attention. I just want to be left alone.”

“Of course,” Ozorne said, sounding amused, or rather, Arram thought, trying his best to sound amused. He wasn’t as good at it as he thought he was. “That’s why you slept with the delightful Lady Akunna, got yourself invited to her country estate, got publicly drunk at a big party and were about to challenge her husband to a duel when my guards found you. Because you don’t want attention.”

“I’m allowed to enjoy myself without you,” Arram said. It sounded like Ozorne didn’t know about the slaves. A hidden part of Arram relaxed. 

Ozorne put down the tray and held out a hand. A tiny image appeared atop his outstretched palm. Lady Akunna, fluttering her fan and her eyelashes. 

“You’re exaggerating her proportions a little,” Arram critiqued. “And I’m not sure her hair’s quite that shade of yellow.” 

“I really don’t know why you do this to Varice, Arram,” Ozorne said sorrowfully. His hand closed on the image, which yelped before discorporating. 

“Oh,” Arram said, “it’s Varice who’s upset, is it? It’s Varice who can’t stand the thought of me touching anyone who’s not her? _ She’s _ the one sending armed guards to drag me back, because _ Varice _is jealous?”

Ozorne pushed the tray off the bed. It clattered onto the floor. That was the only warning Arram got before Ozorne was on him, ringed fingers digging into the sides of Arram’s face, mouth crushing Arram’s against his. He was being pressed into the too-soft bed. Arram brought a knee up to press between Ozorne’s legs, the fabric of that tunic shifting silkily. He ran a hand through the emperor’s hair, enjoying its unusual freedom.

Ozorne bit his lip, hard enough that Arram tasted blood. The emperor drew back a little, looking at Arram, eyes hard. “Stop pushing me, Arram,” he said. “You’re not a child playing pranks any more. You’re a mage of the imperial court. There are limits to my tolerance, now.”

Arram tried to remember what he’d felt, the first time Ozorne had touched him as more than a friend, the nights of drinking on the University roof, losing control of their Gifts as they explored each other’s bodies, giggling at each little fire they had to put out. He tried to remember what he’d felt less than a year ago, watching from a distance as the black-robed priests placed the crown of Carthak on Ozorne’s brow, the ache he’d felt in his stomach, thinking how lonely his friend looked. 

Once there had been something more between them than resentment and frustration and restless insatiable lust. He wondered if Ozorne thought to he could get it back, wherever it had gone, or if he just refused to lose, to give up on anything. 

“‘There are limits to my tolerance,’” he imitated, mockingly. “You sound so pompous. I always told you being emperor was going to swell your head.” He dropped a hand from Ozorne’s hair to grab him further down. The emperor gasped. Seeing him lose control was some kind of a victory, he told himself. 

This wasn’t going to get better, he realized suddenly. 

Over Ozorne’s shoulder he could see the mural. He wondered if there were any in the whole palace depicting places not part of the empire. 

Such places existed. Ozorne might feel like the center of the world, but he wasn’t. Arram could go and live somewhere where nothing belonged to the emperor mage.

_I’ll tell him that,_ Arram thought, and sighed and wriggled as Ozorne's tongue traced his collarbone. _Tomorrow, I’ll tell him that._


End file.
